


A Night In

by Dardrea



Series: Valentine's Fluff 2016 [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Rumbelle - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Valentine's Day, rumbelle anniversary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 23:18:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5983986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dardrea/pseuds/Dardrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valentine's Fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Night In

It had seemed like a good idea at the time: an afternoon in, reading horror stories, classic and modern in ‘protest’ of a Valentine’s Day spent alone—rather than with her ex, who she refused to go crawling back to just because of the date on the calendar, or the creepy guy down at the Rabbit Hole who she refused to take up on his salacious offers because of the same, or even her two best single friends, Ruby and Mulan, who really needed a night without the fifth wheel to maybe finally catch on to what had become glaringly clear to everyone around them…and what better night than this one?

And all of that was well and good, except that she’d underestimated once again her own ability to be completely caught up in her books.

Which was why, at only six in the evening she was huddled into a ball on her couch, a stack of anthologies at her side, as she cowered in the small pool of light from the only lamp she’d thought to turn on earlier, when it had still been bright and sunshiny outside and she hadn’t really needed any lights at all.

Now it was dark, and her apartment windows were shiny panes of blackness, set above the street lights and most of the other buildings in the square. The door to the hallway where her bedroom and bathroom were was a gaping hole of impenetrable shadow.

And she was certain she wasn’t alone.

There were sounds, familiar sounds of the refrigerator running, the ice falling, the occasional gurgle of water in the pipes from the bathroom, the kitchen clock ticking, the heater pinging, her own heartbeat, her own breathing, all normal sounds.

But there had been another. A sharp crack of wood, like the floor of the old building expanding and contracting as the temperature changed with the falling night. Or like one of the planks being stepped on by an incautious foot. And there’d also been that flash of something from the corner of her eye.

It could have been her own reflection, that white face she’d briefly glimpsed in the direction of the windows. But it might not have been, she thought, her imagination glutted on the works of King, Poe, and Lovecraft.

There could have been someone at her window. At her third story window? No, no, that was ridiculous. It couldn’t have been a someone…it would have to have been a some _thing_. That was when she’d swung her legs up to take her feet off the floor and curl them up with her on the couch, where something hiding underneath it couldn’t reach out at and grab at them.

Of course, it was a reflection, just her own reflection glimpsed at the corner of her eye, the sensible librarian told herself firmly.

Unless it was the reflection of someone—something—else. Behind her the black, shadowy pit of the hallway loomed. Something could have briefly poked out of it, looking at her, caught her sudden jump at its reflection and then withdrawn again.

She hunched her shoulders, wrapping her arms around her legs, her heart pounding, trying to breathe shallowly enough to not warn whatever was in the apartment with her that she was onto it while she cursed herself for not getting up to turn on more lights when it hadn’t been so dark.

She screamed at the sudden loud pounding on her door.

Knocking, really, it was knocking more than pounding, no more than was polite—but my, it had come loudly and suddenly when her ears had been straining to hear any sound out of the ordinary. It paused at her scream, then came again, more tentatively.

It was only a few feet from the couch to the door, a few feet of darkness, beyond the pool of light cast by the single lamp she’d thought to turn on. Was it a trick?

She huffed in annoyance with herself. She was being silly. She stood up beside the couch, her bare ankles aching with the certainty of something reaching out from under the couch to wrap around them. She ran to the door, such a little distance, but the switch to the overhead lights was beside it and she slapped her palm on it with a desperation she would forever deny, breathing a deep sigh of relief as light flooded her small apartment.

A quick, perilous glance behind her found her hallway empty and the part of the bathroom she could see from this angle empty as well.

Heart still pounding, but feeling better—and more foolish—now that she was no longer in the dark, she checked the peephole.

It was the last person most citizens of Storybrooke would have wanted to see, but she was so relieved she could have hugged him. She’d forgotten, in her determination to ignore that it was Valentine’s Day that it was also the day her rent was due.

She unlocked her door and flung it open, reaching for his arm before he understood what was happening and tugging him into her apartment.

“Mr. Gold! I’m so glad to see you!” she said honestly. “I’m afraid I forgot to write up your check but it will only take a minute, why don’t you come inside for a cup of tea while I do that?” she said less honestly, but she could always tear up the first check.

He frowned at her hand on his arm. “Miss French—”

He’d also braced himself on his cane so she couldn’t pull him any further into the apartment. She didn’t blame him, he was probably afraid she was trying to drag him in so she could poison him and not have to pay at all—he wasn’t well liked in town, although she’d never quite understood why.

“No, really, it’ll only take a minute but it’s far too cold for you to wait out there. Would you prefer hot cocoa? Or coffee? I think I have some stashed around somewhere, though it’s not my favorite, personally, but you have to be a good hostess and some people can’t seem to get through an hour of the day without a cup of coffee, isn’t that funny? Quite a cold spell we’re having now too, I’m sure it would be good to have something to warm you up, I just can’t leave you standing out on that chilly stoop while I get my check book. Rum! I have a bottle of rum if you’d prefer some of that, or I think Ruby might have left a bottle of something else last time she was here, I can look for it if you’re interested—”

“Miss French,” he said again, firmly, just that, but he’d cocked his head and was watching her with something approaching concern. “Are you quite all right?”

She giggled nervously, aware she was being a ninny, but not able to stop now.

“Of course! Of course I am, just fine, what’s so wrong with being neighborly? You have been my landlord for the past two years and we’ve never sat down for a good chat—”

His expression didn’t change but he shook his head lightly. “Perhaps…I should go. You can drop off my check at the pawnshop on Monday.”

It was a huge concession. As far as she knew the man never granted extensions, ever. He was notorious for it. But his leaving was the absolute last thing she wanted at the moment.

She grabbed at his arm again and nibbled her lip, fighting back the urge to continue babbling pathetically.

She was surprised when his hand closed over both of hers on his arm, warm and solid and steadying. She blinked up at him.

He was looking at her, still wearing that expression of concern that was such a change from his usual air of bored condescension, or worse, faint mockery. “Please, Miss French, will you tell me what’s wrong?” His voice was soft, gentle, intimate.

“I think there’s someone in the apartment!” she blurted out without thinking, instantly wincing at her own cowardice. There wasn’t anyone in the apartment. Why had she said that? How on earth had he convinced her to voice her stupid fears?

But his head had snapped up, his focus instantly on the only part of the tiny apartment that wasn’t easily visible from where they stood in her doorway: the bathroom and the bedroom.

“I mean—”

“Stay here,” he said, instantly moving between her and the hallway, and she wanted to groan. How had this happened to her? How was _this_ her Valentine’s Day?

“I’m sure—” she tried.

“Stay there,” he said again, cold, hard, the way he normally spoke, and she found she missed the sweeter, gentler tone he’d used to ask her what was wrong. That had been a voice capable of prying all her secrets from her, no matter how petty and foolish. Perhaps it was just as well he didn’t talk like that more often, she thought, wringing her hands as he stalked towards her bathroom.

She wanted to laugh. How did she confess to him now that there was certainly nothing in her apartment but the two of them, her books, and an imagination her father had always warned her was too big for her own good.

He limped a little more heavily, having raised his cane up, poised like a club. She imagined the solid brass handle could do some damage.

He wouldn’t find anything, she was certain of that now, with the lights on and no longer alone and her head dragged out of the world of her horror stories by the mundanity of her rent being due. But she grabbed a heavy earthenware vase as she tiptoed after him, just in case.

He poked around her bathroom, but it was small enough that the only place anyone could be hiding was in the tub or behind the door and both locations were quickly cleared. From there it was just her bedroom.

He was methodical, checking behind the door, the closet, even poking under her bed. He checked her window and the fire escape last.

He finally lowered his cane back to its usual place and turned to face her, his exit from the room blocked by her and the vase she held. He swept his hair back from his face with an impatient hand. “Well, Miss French, your apartment seems to be clear. Unless this was a ruse of some sort?” He raised his brows in askance but it took her a second to realize he was referring to the vase that she was still brandishing to cave in the head of anyone—or thing—that might actually be present to attack her rescuer.

She’d been caught up in the embarrassment of her untidy housekeeping: the short silk nightie tossed haphazardly over her unmade bed, the tiny red lace panties draped over the rim of her laundry basket, the two pushup bras, the pale blue and silver, and the mint, hanging by the window where she’d put them to dry. Not to mention her work clothes from earlier that day left in a pile in the center of the floor where she’d traded them for more comfortable shorts and a tank top. Certain she was blushing, she lowered the vase, unable to meet his eyes.

“Uhm—thank you?” she muttered.

He laughed and she was so startled by the sound, specifically by the lack of mockery in it, that her eyes shot back to his face in spite of herself. If ever there was a time for his usual sneering, it was now, having basically just checked a tenant’s room for boogiemen.

But he looked relieved. And perhaps a little shaky.

She smiled. “Well, you have to have that tea now. I can’t send you back out without some reward for making sure my apartment was secure.”

And he smiled back, a little uncertainly. “I don’t want to impose on your Valentine’s Day plans. You can still leave the check for me on Monday…”

She grabbed his arm and tossed the vase at the bed—too late to worry about his opinion of her housekeeping now. “No, I won’t hear of it. You must join me for tea and—and maybe dinner?”

She risked another glance as she led him back out to the living room. He was blinking, looking around him as though for someone else to appear, someone more welcome than the intruder she’d told him she was afraid of—more welcome than him, too, perhaps. How had she never noticed before how kind his eyes were?

“But your plans…”

She waved his words away. “I didn’t have any. Or at least, not for anything more than a quiet night in. And it turned out a little quieter than I was comfortable with.” She nibbled her lip, still embarrassed and still not really wanting to be alone again. “Please stay? I have a lasagna from Granny’s and I can make up a salad.”

He winced for some reason, but his lips curled cautiously. “If you’re sure…?”

She grinned. “Positive!”

Perhaps an afternoon in, reading horror stories, hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.


End file.
